


The Gift That Keeps On Giving

by DameRuth



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-15
Updated: 2010-04-15
Packaged: 2017-10-08 23:35:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/80650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DameRuth/pseuds/DameRuth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the end of his life, the Tenth Doctor visits the Face of Boe on New Earth and everything changes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Gift That Keeps On Giving

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Winter Companions](http://community.livejournal.com/wintercompanion/) 2010 Doctor/Jack fest over on LJ, to the prompt: "Ten, during his goodbyes, goes to see the Face die (from a distance), but stays longer, seeing him come back again as Jack. Somehow, Jack prevents the regeneration and goes off to travel with the Doctor. Bonus: Sex and telepathy."
> 
> I didn't quite manage the bonus points, I fear, but this still turned out fun and fluffy; surprisingly so, in fact, given that Ten/Jack is my Angst!OTP and I'm not a fan of the "Jack as the Face of Boe" schtick. But the prompt generated an idea as to how the trope could be handled in a way I actually liked, and, bingo, fic was born. Thanks to Gillian_Taylor, Yamx and Itsabere for their kind, helpful and astonishingly *fast* beta work. Any errors that remain are strictly my own. :)  
> 

The Doctor doesn't know why his wandering path of farewells has taken him here, not really. He's been running on raw instinct for the last little while as the growing sense of _wrongness_ in his body heralds the end of a life he's reluctant to leave, regardless of the pain it's brought him.

Well-hidden, his TARDIS has materialized far back in the labyrinth of the Senate building, and he's limped this far to watch in numb silence from a hidden spot among the bones of the dead as Martha, his younger self, and Novice Hame witness the Face of Boe giving his last, no-longer-cryptic message before dying. Even with such grand drama playing out before him, it's hard to concentrate; he can feel the first stirrings of nausea pinching his digestive tract, and a faint itch (soon to be pain) starting deep in his skin, his scalp and at the bases of his finger- and toe-nails. The effects of radiation are coming home to roost at last, as the deceptive calm of the "walking dead" incubation period reaches an end. All the growing, dividing cells of his body have been killed off, and without them working constantly to replace the existing architecture of his body as it wears out, he's facing a slow, terrible dissolution until the regenerative process kicks in and "saves" him.

_Rose next,_ he thinks, his brain dull and sluggish as he watches Hame, alone, say a last silent farewell to the Face before following Martha and the younger Doctor from the mausoleum that this once-grand building has become. Literally – he's seen it: the Senate building will be sealed off forever after this, to serve as a combination of tomb and monument. Eventually both the Face and Hame will be canonized and people of all species and walks of life will pray for support and healing at the closed-off doors, leaving prayers, flowers and candles behind. Now, however, there are no miracles. Only death, death and more death. He still doesn't know why he's here, but he does know he won't last much longer and he's promised himself that he'll go see Rose last of all, as a way to keep himself going until the end.

Hame is outside now with the others, breathing fresh air and standing in sunlight for the first time in decades. He knows, because he remembers being there with her. She will never enter this building again. Nobody will. Safe from discovery, he drags himself out of hiding to stand before the lifeless Face of Boe. "Old friend," the Face had called him. A friendship to be enjoyed by a future self, apparently, since he's only met the strange, ancient being three times so far, by his reckoning. Not much material for a friendship there.

"Guess I'll be seeing you later. Or sooner. Or something," he says, trying to joke, but the words fall cracked and humorless from his lips. He's on the verge of turning away when the Face moves.

Not a muscle spasm or death-twitch. It's as if the Face is _melting_, scaly flesh liquefying, flowing, contracting in on itself. The Doctor jumps back, a burst of adrenalin giving his dying body a bit of its old bounce. He can't look away; the spectacle is grotesque, surreal, and weirdly fascinating. _Is this normal? Is this what his kind does when they die?_ he thinks, before things get even stranger and rational thought cuts out entirely.

The puddle of liquefied flesh continues to contract and a naked humanoid body, sprawled face-down on the floor, begins to take shape. Not just any body; the Doctor recognizes it a half-second before it takes a hoarse, wheezing breath and lives again.

"God, I hate cold floors," Jack Harkness murmurs in a gravelly voice and rolls over, opening his eyes. He's looking right up at the Doctor, and his face pulls into an expression nearly as stunned as the Time Lord feels.

"Doctor? You're still here?" Jack gasps. "What . . .?" he breaks off and corrects himself, in a tone of understanding: "No, not still here. Here _again._" He pushes himself up and tries to rise, but his bare feet slip on the polished stone floor, muscles still stiff from his resurrection. Instinctively, the Doctor catches his hand and helps Jack to his feet.

"Thanks," Jack says. "It's gonna take a while to get used to having my legs back." Their eyes meet and the Doctor feels dizzy, as if he's falling. Looking into those blue eyes is like gazing up into the sky, into infinity. This close, without the intervening glass and smoke (which, he now thinks, might have been more than they seemed), he realizes that the odd, skin-crawling feeling he'd always picked up from the Face was the whiff of a fixed point, but one mellowed into something far more subtle than the bright, stabbing sensation he'd first experienced in the presence of Jack's immortality. This is not the Jack he's just recently seen in a bar; this Jack is much, much (how much?) older.

"Hello, old friend," Jack says and his tone is warm, though he frames the words with a wry, lopsided smile.

"What?" the Doctor asks, unable to stop himself. "_How?_"

Jack raises his eyebrows. "That covers a lot of territory. Care to be a little more specific?"

"You really _are_ the Face of Boe? Were? Will be? Whatever? I thought you were just taking the mickey when you said that to me and Martha!"

Jack chuckles. "Actually, at the time I _was_ messing with you. They did call me 'the Face of Boe' at the Agency, but as a joke. It was a reference to the real Face, who was already a celebrity back then. _But_, fast-forward a few billion years, loop back on my own timeline once or twice, and there I am, the 'real' Face of Boe after all. I swear the Universe has a sense of humor, sometimes."

"But," the Doctor sputters. He waves a hand up and down, indicating Jack's bare, muscular and completely human body, ". . . How?"

"How did I get to be a head in a jar? Oh, that's a _long_ story . . . " Jack says with a grin, but he breaks off when the first real gut-twinge sends the Doctor spasming and doubling over. Jack's large, strong hands catch hold of the Doctor's upper arms, steadying him. "But you don't have a long time, do you?" Jack finishes. He helps the Doctor straighten, and the Time Lord is rocked by what he sees in Jack's face. So much past love, pain and compassion, blended and distilled into acceptance and something approaching serenity, while remaining alert, aware and part of the present. It's the Face's vast, abiding calm, carried over into human form.

"You're still saying your goodbyes, aren't you?" Jack asks softly. "I never did get to thank you for Alonso, you know. We were both exactly what the other needed just then."

He speaks as if it were yesterday, he _looks_ as if it were yesterday – all but his eyes. And: _billions_ of years, he'd said.

"You remember that?" the Doctor asks, hearing the dying rasp in his own voice.

Jack cocks his head, a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth; it's a very _Jack_ expression, dry humor blending seamlessly with the Boe-ness. "I remember _everything_," he says.

"That's impossible," the Doctor says, glaring.

"Yeah, I am," Jack says, and if it comes out sounding slightly snarky, well, maybe he's entitled to that.

The Doctor opens his mouth to respond, but breaks into a fit of coughing instead. Jack supports him; when the Doctor stops and swallows, he tastes the first faint copper tang of blood in his mouth. "I have to go," he tells Jack. Rose. He wants her to be the last one he sees before he regenerates. That thought overrides everything else, even this bizarre, unforeseen reunion. His impending death creates a form of tunnel vision, narrowing his world down to the barest essentials.

Jack is frowning, and doesn't release him. "Before you go," Jack says, hesitates, and then leans forward. The Doctor catches his intent and almost pulls back, but stops at the last minute. After all, they've already parted with a kiss once, just before Jack died and was reborn to be . . . whatever he is. It's the Doctor's turn to be on the other side now. The symmetry is undeniable.

_It's an old tradition,_ memory whispers, calling up another kiss, another farewell: ghostly lips made of stardust, and a traveler to send on her way. That's appropriate, too.

Jack isn't a ghost, or stardust. He's all soft, living human warmth when his mouth touches the Doctor's, and the Doctor relaxes, taking in the sensation, glad his leaving won't be as lonely as he thought. Even the memory of a single last kiss to take into the darkness makes that final voyage a bit more bearable. Wrapped as he is in the moment, he doesn't recognize the tingling he feels as anything more than damaged, over-stimulated nerve endings until it coalesces into a solid _snap_ like a spark of static electricity. His body tries to jerk away in reflex, but Jack's hand is cupping the back of his head with unexpected strength, holding him in place.

The Doctor's lips part in surprise and protest, letting more of that tingling, sparking stuff slip into his mouth like a trickle of water. Then it's as if floodgates have burst and energy is pouring into him, runneling down his throat and radiating outward through his entire body. It fills him like the rising sap of Spring, reawakening all the dead places inside him and making them live again: stem cells, kick-started, begin dividing, repairing, healing. The sensation is completely unlike regeneration except for its overwhelming inevitability. It's not a painless process, but it is a joyous one, and the Doctor, stunned and confused, lets the raging current bear him along. Finally, when the flow fades to a trickle, he breaks free from Jack's kiss with a shuddering intake of air that sounds very much like Jack's usual returning-to-life gasp.

The Doctor gulps in more air, breath after breath, respiratory bypass failing him for once. Returning awareness of his body above and beyond the cellular level informs him that he's come alive in all _possible_ ways, which is as embarrassing as it is unexpected. Even though Jack never looks away from the Doctor's face and their bodies aren't touching – except for his hands on Jack's shoulders (he doesn't remember placing them there, but he must have done, for balance) and Jack's hand now resting loosely on the back of the Doctor's neck – the Doctor is still certain that Jack _knows_, somehow, being Jack.

"Thought that might give you a lift," Jack says, and the wicked twinkle in his fathomless blue eyes confirms the Doctor's suspicions. Ancient beyond mortal understanding or not, some people never change.

"What the _hell_ was that?" the Doctor growls, allowing himself the mild profanity in this dizzy, unbalanced moment. His voice is harsher than he intended, almost angry. Rippling shudders of fading power slosh back and forth through his body like the aftershocks of pleasure's height – _not_ the most comfortable comparison at the moment, since it does nothing to reduce his body's reaction.

Jack's eyebrows arch in amusement. "Life. Eternal life, in particular. Sometimes there's so much of it, a little bit spills over into someone else who needs it. The gift that keeps on giving, you could say." He goes (mostly) apologetic. "Sorry I didn't warn you. I didn't know if it'd work on Time Lords, and it seemed cruel to get your hopes up if it wouldn't."

_I'm not dying!_ the Doctor's perceptions go internal again for a moment, verifying the renewed activity of his body's machinery. He no longer feels queasy or itchy – thankfully, the miraculous renewal was instantaneous, with no lag time needed for all systems to come back on line. Otherwise, he would have been in trouble. He turns his attention outward and realizes he and Jack are still standing in a partial embrace, which Jack, at least, seems in no hurry to end. He's just standing there, waiting for the Doctor, radiating that unhurried serenity, for all that the air is chill and he's wearing nothing but his bare skin. The Doctor realizes that something's needed, in more ways than one.

"Thank you," he tells Jack. It's long overdue and seems like a tiny pittance of what the man is owed, not just for this gift of physical healing.

Jack's face lights up with his wide, movie-star grin. "You're welcome."

"You must be cold," the Doctor says, which is stating the bloody obvious, but he has to keep talking and say _something_. That's the way this incarnation reacts to things, after all. "The TARDIS is just this way," he adds, indicating direction with a tilt of his head. He's careful to keep his eyes on Jack's face, since the flush of arousal is _finally_ fading, but he has the feeling if he dwells too much on Jack's state of undress, he might embarrass himself again. Which is ridiculous; he's seen more naked humans than he can count in his lifetime, and it shouldn't affect him. He just doesn't think about humans that way. That way lies nothing but pain, given the difference in lifespans. He hadn't loved even Rose in _that_ way, for all that he cares far too much about her for his own good, or hers.

His response is a side effect of that jolt of life-force, he decides. That must be it.

He makes himself move (_maybe it'll help if I stop touching him_), and drops his hands from Jack's shoulders. "After that, I can give you a lift, if you want – to anywhere and anywhen. But you knew that. Where _are_ you going now?" The last is spoken with genuine curiosity as he begins to walk in the direction of the TARDIS.

Jack falls into step with the Doctor as easily as ever; his his bipedal balance is returning quickly, it seems. He inhales, exhales, and looks thoughtful. "I'm not sure. I spent so long looking after the city and waiting to give you that message, I kind of got lost in the moment. I didn't think about after." He lifts one bare shoulder in a shrug, and the Doctor studiously ignores the distracting play of muscle under skin. "I'll keep going, like always, stay out of my own way as much as possible. Not that that'll be a problem. The Universe is a big place. Even though I've been around longer than it has, I haven't seen more than a fraction of it. I'll just go somewhere new." He pauses, then flicks a sidelong glance at the Doctor. "So. Is that offer still open?"

The Doctor blinks. "Offer?" For a moment, all that's running through his still gutter-bound mind is the thought that he hadn't figured even Jack would take an involuntary physical reaction as an _offer_.

"To travel with you," Jack says, with good-humored patience. "If it is, I think I'm finally ready to take you up on it."

"Oh. Oh, _that_ offer . . ." The Doctor's mind spins madly, then clicks to an immediate decision like a slot machine lining up a winning combination. "Yes. Yes, it is. Very much so. I'd be happy to have you, Jack." His mouth snaps shut after the last bit, as it sounds horribly suggestive to his own ears. It doesn't help that Jack stops walking and stands stock-still, looking shocked.

Cringing inwardly, the Doctor asks, "Jack?"

Jack shakes his head. "It's been a long, long time since someone's called me that," he says. "And even longer since I've really _felt_ like Jack Harkness."

It's the Doctor's turn to be startled, though he realizes he shouldn't be. After all that time, there's no reason why the man standing before him should have held on to something as superficial as a name, and an assumed one at that.

The former Face of Boe grins, then. "Yes. Jack. Why not? Now that I've ditched the tentacles, might as well go back to the beginning. Well, near enough." He resumes walking, and there's a visible change in every step, the sense that he's reassuming an old persona and enjoying the feeling.

The Doctor finds himself grinning, too, happier than he's been in a long time. His alone-ness had been getting to him, and this time there isn't the usual background guilt of knowing that he's pulling someone out of their proper setting and into his chaotic, often-dangerous life; nor is there any worry of being abandoned far too soon by someone he's become fond of. Jack is as rootless now as the Doctor himself, and even less vulnerable than a Time Lord to the dangers they're likely to encounter; he can travel in the TARDIS as long as he chooses.

_A long time, I hope,_ the Doctor thinks, finding that he's looking forward to having this new-new-new-to-the-umpteenth-power Jack around for company, with his blend of uncanny age and irreverent, well, _Jack_-ness. They round a corner, and there's his ship, part of the shadows save for the soft, welcoming glow of her "police box" panels and windows. He pulls the key from his pocket – he'll need to make another copy for Jack, he thinks. "D'you want to say goodbye to anyone before we leave New Earth? Novice Hame . . .?"

Jack shakes his head, a shadow that isn't quite sorrow crossing his face. "She'd have no idea who I am, now, and I wouldn't try to explain. We've had our goodbyes; best leave it there." He smiles up at the TARDIS, patting her wooden shell as he leads the way through the open door the Doctor offers him. "Let's get out of here."

The Doctor finds himself watching Jack's shapely backside in passing and has to admit that maybe, just maybe, some of his reaction to that kiss might have been the result of long-buried impulses of his own, rather than the raw power of Jack's life force.

Lifespan certainly isn't an issue here. If that barrier has been removed, maybe others have, too. The Doctor's mind shies away from that train of thought, but more from the sheer novelty of the idea than anything else; then his lightning-quick thoughts circle around again for a second look, followed by a third, as his eyes continue to linger on Jack. "Maybe we can go somewhere and you can finally buy me a drink," he says, surprising himself. He's managed to conquer a lot of his rude-but-not-ginger impulses over time, but not all of them.

He even surprises _Jack,_ who laughs, short and startled, then grins over his shoulder. "Wow, Doctor. That was pretty cheeky, even for you. Should I bother putting clothes on?"

The Doctor sniffs, straightening his tie, as he moves to the controls. "'Course you should. We aren't going anywhere for drinks that doesn't have a dress code."

Jack rolls his eyes. "Putting clothes on just to take them off again later. Told you you were a lot of work. Wardrobe room still in the same place?"

"If it isn't, the TARDIS will give you pointers. And don't get ahead of yourself. Drinks first. Then we'll talk about other options. I want to hear your long story about becoming a face in a jar, too. We've got time for it now."

"Yeah," Jack says, with a blinding grin. "We do. And you're gonna want to be drunk for that one, I promise."

The Doctor coughs. It sounds like "clothes."

"Yessir," Jack says, running an affectionate hand along a coral strut on his way out of the control room. "Coming right up, sir." From his tone of voice, there's no way the words are innocently chosen.

"Don't start!" the Doctor calls after him, before taking them into the Vortex. Not to see Rose, oh no. He will still want to go to her again someday, since no regeneration lasts forever and he fully intends to keep his promise to himself (circumstances allowing), but he'll leave that final goodbye until its proper time, when he's ready to leave this life.

He slams levers home with gleeful force, dancing around the controls for the sheer joy of feeling renewed life and health coursing through his body, while the TARDIS hums and purrs with relief.

Right now, he'd _much_ rather say hello to Jack.


End file.
